


Infinity

by LanJevinson



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 2nd person POV, 7x10 gap filler, Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 22:48:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8772469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LanJevinson/pseuds/LanJevinson
Summary: You were doing okay without him.  Things were fine.  They were just fine.  And the life you've carefully constructed without him in it, all the good shit you've worked for - all that is in danger now because he's here and on the run and God, you want to go with him.  Follow him anywhere.
    7x10 gap filler





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, to [grumblesandmumbles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grumblesandmumbles/pseuds/grumblesandmumbles) <3 <3
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [lan-jev](https://lan-jev.tumblr.com/)

“I knew you'd come.”  His voice.  The same, but different.  Less bravado.  The way he walks toward you. The same, but different.  Less confidence. “I knew you'd come,” he says again, softer this time, like he's reminding himself this is real.  Like he didn't really think you'd show up.  You tried to stay away.  You tried.  But Mickey is a magnet.  You had no choice.

You meet him halfway and his lips are on yours and burning flames erupt through your veins at the contact.  His tongue is wet and warm and insistent and you've never felt anything like the way you feel when he kisses you.  Never will again.

It makes you angry.

You were doing okay without him.  Things were fine.  They were just fine.  And the life you've carefully constructed without him in it, all the good shit you've worked for - all that is in danger now because he's here and on the run and God, you want to go with him.  Follow him anywhere.

And you can't.

You yell at him.  You yell at yourself.   _Who are you angry with?_  And he just looks at you.  He’s calm.  He knows you.  He _knows_ you.  He’ll take what you can give him.  Always has.  

You tell him you have a boyfriend.  You say it out loud to remind yourself as much as him.  Trevor’s a good guy.  Interesting but safe.  Attractive.  Dedicated.  But Trevor doesn't look at you like this.  Like you're the only person in the world.  Trevor doesn't know your dark side.

Mickey does.  Mickey knows you.

“Whatcha doing here then?” Mickey challenges, stepping back, voice soft.  “Hm?”  He's not all that surprised you've moved on, you can see it in his face, even through that quick flash of hurt.

It wasn't so hard for you to do, move on from him.  Out of sight out of mind and all that.  Maybe a little denial.  A lot of denial.

But here he is.  In front of you.  How the fuck did you ever think you could move on from him?  How have you been standing - _breathing_ \- without him?

“Tell me goodbye,” Mickey pants into your mouth as he goes for your belt.  And you shove him.  Harder than you mean to, because fuck him, you won't say it.

"What."  He just gives you that look.  Daring you to walk away from him, knowing you won't.  Not now.  Not when he's here and he's like this. 

You reach for the hem of your shirt and catch that familiar appreciative once over he's graced you with so many times in the past before his face disappears as you pull it over your head.  You rip your belt off with a thwack and Mickey's eyes darken and he turns, tugging his own pants down like old times.  When you'd hurry to get off in secret as teenagers.

But you don't have to do that anymore.  You've long since learned what one another like, the things that make each of you shiver.  It’s been a long time, but your body and lips move on autopilot.  Muscle memory.  Mickey sighs as you kiss his ear, his neck, and he relaxes under you and you're tight inside him and Jesus.  He came prepared for this.  You imagine him working himself open, thinking of you.  You imagine him picturing you while he was alone in his cell.  And you remember how you think of him.  Every time, just for a second, before you fuck someone else.  Anyone else.

He reaches back and squeezes your hip, and you know what he's feeling, what he’s needing.  He needs more, and so do you. You're already pressed up against him but you can't get close enough.  You thread your fingers through his and he grips onto your hand tight, so tight, like he's afraid to let you go.  You know he is.

You're not going anywhere.  Not right now.

He makes those tiny sounds you know by heart.  He grunts and he murmurs, and you can't help it.  You bury your nose in his neck again.  It's probably been awhile since he's showered.  Probably worn that hat and those clothes for days now.  But God, he smells like him underneath everything.  You couldn't explain it if you wanted to, what he smells like.  But you love it.  Always have.

“Fuck,” he hisses.  “ _I_ _an_.”

You won't last much longer, hearing your name on his lips.  Feeling him all around you.  The sex with Trevor is fine.  You've got no room to complain.  But this.  This.

For a split second you wonder if it's just how the two of you work, you and Mickey.  If this spark you have - this sexual chemistry - is the both of you together, or if the other guys who've been with Mickey feel this too.  The jealousy that courses through you, the fact that there have been others, that there _will_ be others after you, spurs you on, harder and faster, and Mickey moans and pushes back even more against you and you're coming before you can do anything about it.

Mickey clenches around you and huffs a laugh, and you can't tell if he's surprised or pissed or elated or all three.

“Turn around,” you urge him, already pressing his back against the boat as you slip out of him.  He pulls you in for a quick, hard kiss before you push him away again and get on your knees.  His hands bury in your hair but he doesn’t direct you, doesn’t do anything but scratch at your scalp and sigh.  He’s always loved your hair, you know this about him.  The way he’d pet you when he was feeling sentimental.  Wash it for you in the shower after a long shift at the club. Run his fingers over the spot where the short fuzzy hairs meet your neck when he hugged you, or during sex, or while watching TV or when he was comforting you.

His dick springs out of his boxers when you shove them down and it’s hard and leaking and beautiful and Jesus Christ, is it possible to have missed an appendage this much?  You’ve seen some damn good dicks in your life.  Longer.  Thicker.  But you know this one, almost as well as you know your own.  You could close your eyes now and open them and the image would remain the same.

You’ve been staring too long.  Maybe he’ll take it as rejection.

“Ian.” He says your name reverently.  He pulls at your chin so you’ll look up at him.  And he’s smiling.  He’s not confused, or upset.

“I don’t want this to end,” you confess.

There’s that smirk.  Those playful eyes.

“Who the fuck says it has to?”  And for a moment you’re sure he’s referencing his offer for you to come to Mexico with him, and maybe he was, and maybe your face falls a little, because Mickey’s laughing softly, eyes flickering sadly for only a moment before he takes a hand from your face to adjust himself.  “Think I’m gonna let you go before you get me off at least twice?  Need some new material for the spank bank, Gallagher.”

It's enough to ease the tension, and you laugh too, and then fuck, his dick is in your mouth.  And you both groan at the same time because it feels so fucking good.  Connecting like this again.  His grip tightens in your hair and you look up at him as you move your mouth and your tongue.  And he's looking right back at you, eyes clear, heart exposed.

You have to look away.  You don't want to cry while giving a blow job.  Instead you focus on the task at hand and Mickey moans again when you pay special attention to the head of his dick.  He's always liked that, even better than deep throating.  He comes down your throat without any warning at all and grunts through his release, fisting and releasing your hair over and over again until he’s finished.  And then he pulls you up to your feet and you’re kissing again and why did you ever stop doing this, ever?

“Damon’s with his girl for the night,” Mickey says, pulling far enough away to breathe into your mouth but gripping your bare shoulders so tight.  “Van’s a few blocks up.”  He moves closer again, runs his hands up and down your arms quickly.  You suddenly realize you’re shivering.  “Let’s warm you up.”  He moves away from you slowly, bending to retrieve your shirt and belt for you before he pulls up his own pants.  And then he’s crowding closer to you again, like he can’t be away from you, not for a second, and he’s herding you across the grass and you’re going with him without protest.

“You look good,” he tells you quietly as you walk.  And he’s not complimenting you on your physique, you can tell by his soft voice.  “Got shit under control.”  It’s not a question.  He’s seen you manic and he’s seen you depressed and he knows the difference.

“Yeah.”  It’s all you can really say to that.  You don’t want to go into it.  You didn’t then and you don’t now.  But maybe he deserves more from you than that.  The last you truly spoke you’d been resistant to meds, and now here you are.  Medicated.  Functional.  “Everything’s going good.  It’s - things are working for me right now.”

Mickey’s eyebrows go up sharply.

“Right now?” he repeats.

You shrug.  “Up and down.  You know how it is.”   He gives you that look again, that look of understanding, maybe a little pity, that you’d hated then and hate now for very different reasons.  “Mostly good, though.”

Mickey nods.  Clears his throat.

“Good.”  And then you’re both silent again, and Mickey’s shoulder brushes against yours as you walk.  Like you used to walk home together from the Kash and Grab sometimes after a closing shift, when no one was around.  A million years ago and fucking yesterday.

Mickey pulls open the van door and gestures for you to get in first, the hint of a smirk on his lips.  And you climb in and he comes in after you and he slides the door shut.  It’s dark and it smells musty, but there are blankets under your legs and there’s a little room to move.

“This where you’ve been sleeping?”  

Mickey’s face is barely illuminated in the light of the moon.  He meets your eyes and almost looks embarrassed.

“Beats a cell bunk,” he tells you finally, and for the first time all night you feel like there's a distance between you.

“Why?” You ask him.  “Why’d you do it?”

Mickey shrugs.  Shifts closer to you.  Reaches out to touch the buttons of your henley.

“Figured better to be alive and running than dead on the inside.”  He glances up at you and back down again.  He doesn’t say any more.  You swallow hard.

“Was it bad?” you ask him.  He gives you a look, something you can’t quite interpret, and then he smiles softly.

“Nah,” he says, and you know he’s keeping shit from you, things he thinks you maybe need protecting from.  You don’t want to know the details.  You know that it’s selfish.  You know you should let him tell you everything, every awful thing that has happened to him in the time you’ve been apart and he’s been put away.

He won’t tell you, not if you don’t ask.

You can’t believe just days ago you thought you wouldn’t see him for years, would maybe never see him again, and you thought you might’ve been okay with that.  But suddenly you might really _never_ see him again, and you’re so fucking _not_ okay with that.

“You should sleep,” Mickey tells you, and his hand moves from the buttons of your shirt to your neck.

“You telling me to get lost?” you tease, and he smirks and he brings his other hand up and tugs on the collar of your jacket, pulling you onto your side.

“Told ya,” Mickey breathes into your mouth, and your noses bump and even though it’s warm here in the van, you shiver.  “You gotta fuck me again first.”  You won’t say no to that.  How could you?  Mickey pushes your jacket off of your shoulders.  “Wanna see you.  See what I’ve been missing.”  So you get up on your knees and you pull off your shirt and he pulls you right back down again and his fingers trail across your pecs and over the fuzz of your chest hair.  “I like this.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.  Now the rest.”

You laugh, because he’s giving you those eyes and he’s pulling his bottom lip into his teeth, and you’re giddy with it all.  And you do as he says and you shimmy out of your pants, shucking your boots as you go.

“You’re so fucking-” he kisses you again and he scrapes his fingernails over your thighs and his hands are everywhere and you close your eyes and just _feel_ him touching you.  “Fuck.”

“ _Mickey_.”  You breathe his name, and then you can’t stop yourself, and you’re saying it again and again as he pushes you onto your back and kisses down your chest and pulls off his own coat and sweatshirt and pants.  Mickey. Mickey. _Mickey Mickey Mickey._

You roll him onto his back and it’s your turn to pepper his body with kisses.  You pause at the large tattoo over his heart, your own misspelled name, shadowy in the dark, but there.  Right there.  Over his fucking heart.

He hooks his legs around your waist and your dicks touch and he arches into you even more and you’re grinding like teenagers and kissing again.  So much kissing.  Have you ever kissed someone more in one night than tonight?

You kissed a lot, you and him, the night before your lives changed forever.  You’d shown up to his house, nervous, so fucking nervous.  And he made you pizza rolls and you pretended to watch a movie until neither of you could take it anymore and you made out until your lips were raw.  And you remember thinking, _it doesn’t get any fucking better than this_.  And you rode that high until the next morning, when the bottom dropped out from under you.

Fuck.

No.  No.  You can’t ruin this moment.  Not tonight.  You’ll deal with the fallout in the morning.

He pulls away from you, for only a moment, to sift through a crate next to the makeshift bed.  He presses a bottle of lube into your hand and gives you a satisfied little smirk when you raise your eyebrows in surprise.

“Get in me already.”  Despite the order, he kisses you slowly and sweetly again, and curls his hand around your dick.  And you breathe into one another’s mouths as you hover over him.  His hands on you burn a path everywhere he touches.  You think you might feel him on your skin long after tonight is over.  You hope you do.  You want to lay in bed at night when you’re alone and feel where he’s been.   Forever.

And then suddenly you’re inside him (how does that keep happening?) and you’re watching him and he’s watching you as you move together.  Unlike the time by the boat, your orgasm builds slowly, and you’re looking into his face as you tip over the edge, and he bites his lip and closes his eyes when he comes a second later.

He hums in satisfaction and runs his fingers through your hair.  Gentle.  So gentle.  You close your eyes and slump against him and you don't know how long you're out but suddenly Mickey's gently shaking you awake.

“Hey.  You're gonna catch a cold.  Gets chilly in here at night.”  He's moving out from under you and helping you into your shirt like you're a child, and handing you your jeans and boxers.  As you work them on Mickey sits up on his haunches and digs through the same crate, emerging with a roll of dirty, dusty toilet paper.  He wipes off his chest and tosses the used paper and the rest of the roll haphazardly over his shoulder.

You watch him from under heavy lids as you lay there.  He pulls on his own sweatshirt and boxers and yanks a blanket out from under your body and it jostles you enough to wake you up a little more.

This is. This?  This could be the last time.

Mickey tucks the blanket around your body and trails his fingers through your hair and finally, finally, lies back down beside you.  He's always liked taking care of you.

Fuck.

“Mick.”  The scratchiness, the emotion in your own voice takes you by surprise.  “Mick,” you say again, and you don't wanna cry, not now.  How long’s it been since you cried about anything?  Since him, maybe?

Mickey shushes you and scoots closer.  His hands are on your face and he kisses you on your forehead, on your cheeks, on your lips.

“I don’t wanna talk about it now,” he says, soft and gruff and emotional. “Alright?  Just-” He flips over and away from you.  Then he backs up so he's flush against your chest and he moves your arm so it's around his waist.  The way he likes it.  The way you like it.  “Just hold me.”

You do.  You find his hand and squeeze it tight and you lean down to that favorite spot, where his neck and shoulder meet and you breathe him in and suddenly you're lying together in your own bed, in your own house, sated from sex and happy, so happy.  Tomorrow you'll both go off to work and come home to your own place and eat dinner together, and he'll bitch about his day and you'll laugh at his antics and you'll come up behind him while he's doing the dishes and he'll run his soapy fingers through your hair and you won't make it to the bedroom, because it doesn't matter.  It's your place.  You're together.  Nothing to be afraid of, no one to hide from.

 _I love you_ , you say in your dream, and Mickey laughs, kisses you, holds you close. _I love you._

 


End file.
